The Secret Journey

by James Hanley

  ‘I ought to have spat at her.’

  But what was he doing here, in this dark filthy place, with its rank smells, its dense vileness? Yes, he had run here to hide, to be alone, to cry, to let loose the feelings that had been strangling him. What was the use of doing anything? Lies from the very beginning. Yes, from the very beginning. His mother, the priests, his father, his sister, all the same! He ought to feel ashamed. Well, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he ashamed now? And he had only to switch himself away from the morass in which he floundered, to find himself in the greater one of an unchartered future. He could think what he liked, feel what he liked, but two miles away there was Hatfields.

  Somebody was thundering on the door.

  ‘Coming,’ he said, ‘coming.’

  It was the lavatory attendant. Peter wiped his eyes, straightened himself up and shot back the lock.

  ‘Thought you were up to something,’ the attendant said. ‘Feeling all right?’

  He scowled at the man, ran up the slimy steps and emerged into the street. Nearly three o’clock! If Mrs. Ragner went out to lunch—he supposed she ate like any other human—then she must certainly be back now. A sudden longing to see the moneylender seized him. He must see her! But where was her office? Perhaps he had better go into the Library and look up the Directory. He dodged his way along the pavements. People seemed to crawl like crabs, and how indifferent everybody seemed—streaming up and down, full of their own importance. The quick glance, the toss of the head, the skulking woman, the bovine features of the policeman, the red face of the cabby, the consumptive-looking clerk. There was something repulsive, something frightening about this swaying mass of people who seemed to be going round and round in a kind of maddened circle.

  Here was the Library, and in ten minutes he had found the address.

  ‘Ragner, Anna. Moneylender. 41 Heys Road. First floor.’

  ‘Good,’ he thought. Why, he was actually standing in Heys Road. He looked up at the numbered shops. Fortyone—just across the road. Here it was. Number forty-one. First floor. He mounted the stairs two at a time. There was the brass plate. Ragner. He knocked at the door. There was no answer. He knocked again, then discovered that the door opened to the lightest touch. It was an outer swing door, and in his excitement he had not noticed it. He passed inside. A bare room. A counter, on which stood a glass partition with a small window, covered by a shutter. In the corner, what looked like a moth-eaten horse-hair chair. Behind him an old desk, on which lay a pen. The nib was covered with rust. Evidently it had not been used for a very long time.

  In spite of the summer’s day, there was something cold about the air of the place. Something more than a mere coldness. It was like a place where no one has ever stood or breathed. He rapped on the window. Immediately the shutter was pushed back, and the inquisitive, penetrating eye of Daniel Corkran looked out at him. He shut the window again without a word. He seemed to be standing still behind the partition.

  ‘The swine!’ thought Peter. This time he thumped the window with his clenched fist. Daniel Corkran looked out again.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘You have no business here, young man. Your mother’s business with us is finished. There’s nothing more to say.’

  His mother’s business was finished. Then that meant—but——

  ‘Even if it is, you can at least answer a civil question.’

  Daniel Corkran grinned.

  ‘When you’ve asked it, I might answer it. It all depends how I feel, young man. I’ve been watching you for some time now. I advise you in your own interests not to interfere with matters that don’t concern you. You should be working. That’s what you should.’

  ‘Why has Mrs. Ragner been such a beast?’ Peter said. ‘Yes. Answer me that.’

  ‘You amaze me! You simply amaze me! Do you think I’m a magician? How can I answer a question you can only answer yourself?’

  ‘You mean——’

  ‘I don’t mean. I say. In any case, I’m busy, and Mrs. Ragner is on important business to-day.’ He raised his head and looked at the ceiling.

  ‘You mean she’s really gone to my mother about the loan?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Precisely! Who else do you suppose would go? I, of course, usually collect the accounts, but Mrs. Ragner decided to collect the money herself.’

  ‘And if we haven’t got it?’

  Mr. Corkran shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘H’m! That’s another matter! Quite another matter. Of course, we have ways of dealing with such circumstances.’

  Peter Fury went right up to the window and said, ‘And Mrs. Ragner would seize everything we have? Wouldn’t give us a single chance?’

  ‘Don’t get so excited, young man! You are apt to let your emotions play tiddlywinks with what common sense you have. And suppose we did, would it be so extraordinary? And is your mother so different from everybody else that she looks for different treatment? You make a mistake, young man. Your mother is just like everybody else—though I might tell you, just in case you don’t know it, that we have been very considerate to her. She owes us money. We want it back! When it isn’t forthcoming we have what we call legal redress—if you know what that means.’

  ‘Then she is quite determined?’ demanded Peter. ‘I mean, she is determined to put us in the gutter?’

  Daniel Corkran raised his chin. ‘Your ignorance is astounding, young man. You seem to have no idea at all about anything. Putting you back in the gutter! Gutter! How can Mrs. Ragner put you where you’ve always been? If I lend a shilling to a man in the gutter, and then demand it back again when it’s due, how can you say I am pushing him into the gutter? But instead of standing there, looking at me as though I were going to poison you—you might well come inside.’

  He lifted the counter and Peter Fury walked under it. He was in Anna Ragner’s office.

  ‘Now,’ began Corkran, ‘just what have you come for? Did you expect to find her here?’

  ‘Yes! I thought she was here,’ Peter replied. ‘Can’t you do anything? Don’t you understand what it will mean for my mother? The disgrace. Oh, it’s hellish! Is she that mean? Can’t she wait?’

  Mr. Corkran looked at the dismayed youth.

  ‘If he goes on like this for long I’ll be beginning to feel sorry for him—the sly young swine.’

  ‘You’re too sensitive! So is your mother! There’s no disgrace at all. As for waiting. We’ve waited a long time, Mr. Fury. I thought you were working on the railway.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you at work?’ he asked.

  ‘Christ!’ shouted Peter. ‘What am I doing standing here—talking to you when it’s her I want to see?’ And he made to go, but Mr. Corkran caught his arm.

  ‘Not so fast, young feller me lad. D’you suppose she’ll listen to you, after what you’ve done? D’you think I’m as blind as all that? Amusing yourselves in the dark. But she knows better now. She’s herself again. Ah! The woman would be nowhere but for me. It’s I who have the power now, young man. It’s changed round.’ He pushed Peter towards the counter, raised it, and pushed him to the door.

  ‘If you want to see her you must go home. You’ll find her there, I have no doubt. Now you get out, and listen to me,’ he hissed into Peter’s ear. ‘Don’t let me see your face again. Understand? And keep away from Banfield House. You’ll have the woman rocky soon.’

  Mr. Corkran was gripped at the shoulders. ‘Is this your work?’ Peter asked.

  ‘Me? Why me? No. Mrs. Ragner. Not me. Mrs. Ragner wants her money, and Mrs. Ragner intends to get it.’

  ‘Then she’ll never get it. Understand that! You ugly-looking bastard!’ He struck the man across the mouth and went out. At the bottom of the stairs he put his hands in his pocket and pulled out some coins. He went off towards the docks. He went into a dining-room, asked for a cup of tea, and sat down. It was getting on for four o’clock. He fell asleep.

  At half-past four Daniel Corkran went out, caught a tra
m and dropped at Hatfields, where at number three he was to meet Mrs. Ragner as arranged.

  The old man in the shop woke Peter up.

  ‘Can’t stay here all day for tuppence,’ he said.

  Peter rubbed his eyes. Why, he had actually fallen asleep. It was nearly five o’clock. He left the rooms and went into the docks. He wandered about from one quay to another, passing lorries, seeing ships, tugs, dredgers, tankers. He was caught up in the desperate life of the docks. If one could fall asleep for a long, long time, and wake up and then find that it was all a dream—his mother and Mrs. Ragner, Mr. Corkran and his father, Anthony and his accordion, Sheila and the man in the black coat, Mr. Kilkey and his bald head. If one could wake up with one’s mind clear of all the events, all the people, that festered round the horizon of his mind. If one could forget beastliness, forget one’s lies. What was home—family? Just a place where one ate and slept—and growled and listened. Home! Everybody lying to outdo one another in sheer lying—parading their misery, hiding their real selves. Human shells moving about in an everlasting fog. He walked across bridges, through sheds, under hoists. He passed out of one gate, entered by another. His stride was hurried, yet aimless. He didn’t know where he was going. Behind him Hatfields, and in front of him the sea.

  ‘I must go home! Yes. I must go home! Something dreadful’s happened. I’ll swear it. Yes. We’re a family no longer. Mother’s hauled down her flag at last.

  ‘Dad smokes his pipe in perfect content. Anthony doesn’t give a hang. Only waiting a chance to get away again.’ And Mother stood quite still. Yes, she remained rooted. Hatfields, the whole world, had revolved about her, it had dizzied her. Now she was still. The world that was Banfield House was spinning round number three. That accursed woman who had hounded his mother! And never a murmur. ‘It makes me feel like—oh, I could——’ He would stop suddenly and laugh.

  He was on the Dock Road again. How far had he walked? He didn’t know. Where was he, and what time was it? Fancy falling asleep in that musty old room!

  Dusk gathered. Here and there lights appeared. Before him a chapel. He stood to read the signboard. It was a Catholic Chapel. He went in and sat down. How quiet and peaceful! Perhaps that was why he had so often found his mother in St. Sebastian’s. It was so quiet and peaceful. The air was heavy. He was a part of the living world, that was yet outside the world. Ten years ago he had used to kneel at an altar and say the Mass in Latin. Suddenly he found himself saying, ‘Suscipiat Dominus sacrificium de manibus tuis ad laudem et gloriam——’ No, he hadn’t forgotten it. ‘Gloria tibi, Domine. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti——’

  Why, he believed he could recite the whole Mass. He was quite alone. He began reciting aloud. As the words fell from his lips he seemed to be carried back those ten years, to be standing robed in white, behind the priest clothed in the rich vestments of his office. He could smell the incense, the air was heavy with it, the chapel seeming to vibrate to the sea of murmurous sounds as the congregation rose for the Last Gospel.

  In the midst of these reflections he suddenly said under his breath, ‘I wish I’d bought that pie. I’m as hungry as a lion. Let’s see.’ He took out the money again. Two shillings and five pennies. ‘I’d better not stay here!’ he thought. In a few minutes he was on the road again.

  Five times he had turned his head towards Hatfields, but always he had retreated. He had gone away. Was there something so devilish about the place that he was afraid to go home? No! Out here, walking the streets, he was free. Free! He could think of everything. At home he could think of nothing except the same old thing. Money! Money! Money! And again it was money. ‘She’s gone too far. She couldn’t do it—but no—she couldn’t be told—it was all right.’ Of course! Everything was all right. And look at her now. Stuck fast! Caught. Unable to move, without a penny, not knowing where to go for help. And it was only the disgrace. That was all. That was all she thought of. The disgrace. He exclaimed savagely, ‘No doubt she’ll pray to St. Anthony and everything will come all right again.’ Would it? It was getting dark. How long had he been out? Since half-past five this morning. ‘I really don’t want to go back. I hate the very idea. And of course the whole bloody thing began with me! That’s right! Me! Not her! It’s none of her business. It’s mine. My account.’ He was in the Salter Road. The air was heavy with the smell of rope and tobacco. Yes. There was the big warehouse.

  He went on. Nearly nine o’clock. There was the great clock of the Gelton Town Hall. He stood looking up at it, not as if it were a clock but some extraordinary phenomenon that had just appeared. Behind him a policeman stood, raising himself up and down on his toes. The same streets, same cars, same crowds, the same whirling circle. ‘I’ll go home—but first I must see Mrs. Ragner.’ Yes. He must see Mrs. Ragner. The maddening circle might dare to revolve—the clock fall with a crash into the street, the world pour into space. He must see her. Twice the policeman looked at him. Peter walked away. Soon he was lost in the moving crowds—had become one of the hectic circle. ‘I’ve still got the two shillings,’ he said to himself. ‘That old witch wasn’t even worth fivepence.’ Laughing, he went into a public bar and stood at the counter. The barman asked for his order. ‘Brandy and soda?’ ‘No, a gin, please.’ He felt a burning, tingling sensation as it passed down his throat.

  ‘The world’s lousy.’

  ‘Aye! What’s that you’re saying, son? The world’s lousy? Well, Christ-a-mighty, listen to that! The world’s lousy. Say it again.’

  ‘The world’s lousy,’ Peter said. He felt a big hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Gerraway! You’re joking. You’re just joking. Trying to be funny. Show me how the world’s lousy. Better still, drink that off and have another.’

  The man drew Peter away from the counter into a corner. ‘Nobody can help you being a silly blighter, you know, but Christ-a-mighty, you mustn’t say the world’s lousy. Not a young feller like you. Here! Take this glass. Now——’ The man raised his glass. ‘To a lovely world,’ he said.

  The gin had gone to Peter Fury’s head. He flopped back in the seat, and leaned his head against the man’s shoulder. ‘Now, listen to me,’ the man went on, and he exhaled his foul breath into Peter’s face. ‘Listen to me, young feller me bloody lad, I can’t make you out saying the world’s lousy. If there was no women in it maybe—yes—maybe. But you look round, open those mammy eyes of yours. Look at that bit of stuff over there! She’s hot stuff. Her name’s Rosy. She’s a good ‘un. Plenty behind. Ah, you’re a bloody caution! What you want is a friend. D’you see, me bloody lad, a friend. Here! Drink that up and have another.’

  Peter Fury was now not only helpless but looking thoroughly stupid. Occasionally he burst out laughing, and people turned round to look at him. Then his head fell across the table. He was crying. The whole house looked at him. Conversation ceased. And Rosy herself came across to the table. The man winked at her, saying, ‘He hasn’t any money, Rosy—and he’s only a kid.’

  ‘Where’s he live?’ she asked. She put a black-gloved hand on Peter’s hair.

  ‘Now you’re asking me! How do I know?’

  ‘Where d’you live, dearie?’ she asked, and endeavoured to raise the youth’s head.

  The man sat Peter up. He was dazed, his face was red, his collar loose, two buttons of his coat had gone. ‘Where d’you live? Aye! Half a mo’. Half a mo’, Rosy, give us a hand here.’

  Between them they managed to get him away from the table. They took him outside. The woman put her hand across his forehead. The man went back to his drinks. She said softly, ‘Be sick! Be sick, dearie!’ He leaned heavily against the wall.

  ‘Leave me alone! Will you leave me alone, you rotten bloody bitch?’ Then he was sick. She left him leaning against the wall. She went back and joined her friends. Peter gave great sighs, each retch sent his head spinning round. He staggered towards the urinal. Then he fell flat upon his face. It was black dark. People came out from the bar, stood there a minute or two, and then
went back again. Peter lay stretched out, his clothes covered with slime. He fell asleep. In his sleep he sobbed.

  ‘Here, young feller. Wipe your face.’ The man who had picked Peter Fury up from the slate floor of the convenience had carried him to the end of the yard. He leaned him against a gate. ‘You’ve had too much,’ he said. ‘Bet you fell asleep. Now take this brush and then clean your clothes, there’s a good lad. I’ll leave you a minute.’

  Peter began rubbing his head. Where was he? What time was it? Had his mother come back yet? Oh well, he’d better get off to bed. He felt so tired.

  ‘Here!’ said the man, ‘drink that. It’s only soda water. Now, where d’you want to get to?’ He took the brush from his hand. He opened the sliding gate that led to the rear of the public-house.

  ‘Banfield Road,’ Peter said, and suddenly was sick again. The man helped him into the shed.

  ‘D’you know what car? Twenty-nine A. Look! Take a turn to your left when you get to the bottom of this street, cross the road and you’ll see the car-stop. Have you your fare?’

  Peter stared stupidly at the man. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and wanted to be sick again. He kept rubbing his head.

  ‘Here! That’ll take you to Banfield Road—and good luck. Oh! And here’s your knife,’ the man said, running after him. ‘It fell out of your pocket. You must have failed in the men’s place. Lucky they didn’t piddle on you. Well, good-night, young ‘un.’ Laughing, he went back to the yard, pushed back the gate, shot the bolt, and returned to his work of cleaning the glasses for the night.

  In the badly lighted street, Peter leaned against the wall. Knife? What knife? His head was throbbing, and this continuous sickness in his stomach—it seemed everlasting. Where had he been all day? Of course. He hadn’t been back to work. He had gone to see if he could find Mrs. Ragner! Knife! Knife! He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the sheath knife. Dropped out of his pocket. When? ‘Oh—I see. Yes. The sheath knife.’ He meant to sell it to old Postlethwaite, but he hadn’t sold it, and here it was lying in his hand. He put it back in his pocket and staggered down the street. Reaching the bottom, he stood by a hat-shop window. He looked inside. Gradually his weight lay against it. He pressed his face against the cold glass. He imagined he could see himself in it, and began making faces at himself. His arms were spread-eagled above his head. ‘Christ! What have I been doing?’ For the fourth time he was sick. ‘Ugh!’ he said. ‘Ugh,’ and pushed himself away from the window. Funny! He seemed to be walking round in circles all the time, just like those people had been to-day. He looked across the road. What time was it now? He went across and leaned on the lamp-post. A young woman, her arm through her companion’s, came along. Peter stopped them. He made to ask a question—looked at the young woman, smiled, and suddenly began to stammer. ‘Could they tell him which was—which was—I—car to Banfield?’ He leaned against the women, who promptly pushed him off. ‘How disgusting!’ one said, as they hurried on. ‘Hopelessly drunk. And such a nice young chap,’ remarked the other. They turned round to look at Peter, who was still leaning against the lamp-post. A tram came up. He saw the lights, but the number danced before his eyes. He made a sort of frantic leap into the roadway. ‘Did this car go to Banfield Road—Banfield House—Ban——?’